NEAR BETHLEHEM 
AND OTHER POEMS 

BY 

J. EDGAR SMITH 



NEAR BETHLEHEM 

AND OTHER POEMS 

BY 

J? EDGAR SMITH 



'Printed for Private Distribution by 
ALFRED HOLMEAD 

Washington, D. C. 

1922 



P53537 



t*» Fred B Woodw»r 
»t II 1930 



Jfaar VstitUtpm 



From c CAe Christian Register, Boston, JXCass. 
'December 22, 1921. 



Near Bethlehem, 
Beneath Orion's glittering belt, to watch 
Their folded flocks, three shepherds stood. 

And, to , 

Beguile the time, they told how mighty gods 
Had walked on earth. 

Cleon, from Arcady, 
A votary of Pan, piped a tune 
That trilled the tender notes of mating birds; 
That buzzed the drone of humming bees; that made 
The wintry air bear nectared memories 
Of orchards blushing into springtime bloom, 
And dance with the rippling mirth of laughing 
nymphs. 

But when the Achaean idyl died away 
The man from Sidon, Hiram, wailed a dirge 
Lamenting fair Adonis; and they wept. 

Then Joel, son of Benjamin, sang 
To his harp's resounding strings the ancient psalms 
That match the gem-strewn empyrean: 



The heavens declare the glory of God; 
And the firmament showeth His handiwork. 

Day unto day uttereth speech, 

And night unto night display eth knowledge. 

They have no voice; but, shining, speak; 
Their line is gone thro' all the earth 
And their song to the ends of the world. 

But Thou! O, Lord! 
Whither shall I go from Thy Spirit ? 
Or, where shall I flee from Thy Presence? 

If I ascend into heaven, Thou art there! 

If I make my bed in hell, behold, Thou art there! 

Tho' I take the wings of the morning 

And dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, 
Even there shall Thy hand lead me, 

And Thy right hand shall hold me! 
Nor shall the darkness ever cover me, 
For the night shall shine as the day! 

Lift up your heads, 0, ye gates; 

And be ye lifted up, ye everlasting doors; 

And the King of Glory shall come in! 

These psalms, to prophet, priest, and 
king, had been 
Freedom in Babylon; living waters 
Good to the desert parched soul. That morn, 
Near Bethlehem, while Joel sang, the gates, 
The everlasting doors, did lift for them; 
And, from the firmament there flooded in, 
In tidal melodies, etheric waves 
Of gorgeous splendor, wedded light and sound. 

The morning stars together sang; 
The ringing, crystal spheres responsive choired; 

The whole creation vibrant rang; 

And lilting, winged angels bright, 
In opalescent loveliness attired, 



Came trooping down 

O'er Bethlehem Town, 
Before the wondering shepherds' sight. 
A chanting army, on they came; 

Each wore a jewelled diadem 
Which leapt and quivered living flame 

In every perfect precious gem; 
Reflecting choral ebbs and flows, 

Of contrapuntal angel tones, 
In all the varied hues and glows 

Of topaz, sapphire, diamond stones, 
Thro' violet and blue and gold and rose. 

Ah! blessed shepherds! humble men! with awe 

And wonderment to you the harmony 

Of Heaven did unfold! You heard the chant: 

Gather ye, gather ye! Sons of God! 
Come ye from farthest, from nighest! 

The heavens declare 

His glory there! 
Glory to God in the highest! 

Who was, and is, and is to be; 

Unseen and yet all-seeing; 
In whom we live and move; 'tis He 

In whom we have our being. 
He is the Life, the Light of Men 

Amid the darkness shining; 
And brings His peace, good-will again, 

Himself, in man, enshrining. 

Now, be ye lifted up, ye gates! 

And lift! O, everlasting door! 
He comes, Whom all creation waits, 

The King of Glory evermore! 



Glory to God in the highest, 
And to men be peace, good-will! 

Reverb'rant thro' the gulfs of space, 
Projectant all the length of time, 
The noble anthem rolled 
Its happy might 
Of peace and light, 
In cadences of ringing rhyme, 
And complementary colors bright 
That shone and told 
The mysteries of love and grace. 

And out and on the rhythm rushed 

In floods of light and bursts of song, 
That glowed and swelled and throbbed and flushed 

Till Chaos, swept by it along, 
Reluctantly respondent, hushed 
Its blatant, wild cacophonies, 
And primal night 
Felt strange delight 
In hyacinthine harmonies; 
For hither, God-ward, drawn, 
It took the Iris-hues of dawn! 

Fear not! a mighty angel said to them, 
The awe-oppressed herds. Good tidings do 
We bring! We are but messengers of Him 
Whose Son, in Bethlehem, is born today. 
The King of Glory, wrapped in swaddling-clothes 
Is lying in a manger. Seek for Him. 
For, though He be a Savior, Prince of Peace, 
He is a babe. 

The shepherds bowed to earth 
Amazed, entranced. 



That morn a touch of holy awe 

Thrilled thro' all flesh 

To wake afresh 
Its urging to the higher law. 
But what the shepherds heard and saw 

Passed others by. 

For there, near Bethlehem, 
Three men, on camels, followed an 
etheric star; 

And that, in all the brilliant sky, 
Alone was seen by them. 

And tho' they'd traveled from afar. 

Were rich, and great, and wise, 

The Magi's scroll-worn eyes 

Saw in the skies 
Only the Star that did adorn 
The firmament that glorious morn. 

Now, when the shepherds roused again, 
They saw the wintry stars above; they heard 
The bleating flocks below. And, from afar, 
A cock did crow, as tho' he saw the day. 

Come! said Joel, let us seek the Babe! 
Then, down the hillside, past their folded flocks 
They went. Above them glowed the nebulae, 
And Sirius sparkled, as of old. 

At last, 
Thro' cluttered lanes they found a stable, close 
Beside an inn, whence sounds of lowing kine 
And crowing fowl were heard. A light shone thro' 
The open door. And there they saw the Babe, 
In swaddling clothes, and lying in a manger. 



Ah! fragrant was the bed of hay 
Whereon His Mother Mary lay. 
And deeply sweet 

The look of gentle love 
She raised to meet 
The tenderness above 
From Joseph beaming. 
Again the shepherds' wondering sight 
Beheld the glow of heavenly light 
That, mildly streaming, 
Came from the Child. 
They took their dusty sandals off, 
They kneeled beside the manger-trough 
Where Magi were 
Who reverently piled 
Gold, frankincense, and myrrh, 
In richest offering. 

And, then, the shepherds told what they had seen 
Till Mary's eyes grew moist, and Joseph's hand 
Shook as he smoothed her brow. 

The Magi, struck 
With wonder, worshipped once again. But, as 
The sun arose, they bowed to it, and cried: 

O, Sun! 
We, who adore the Mighty Ormuzd, 
Came to give presents to a King. 
And we have seen 
The Prince of Light! 

And they, the wise, departed eastward. But 
The shepherds, gazing after them, about 
Their wonted tasks, did lead their flocks beside 
Stile waters. 



WHEN LYDIA WALKS 

When Lydia walks, it's my surmise 
The lady moves to charm my eyes; 

When Lydia talks, her rhythmic tone 

I hear as meant for me alone — 
Perhaps the facts are otherwise ! 

Tis said she needs the exercise; 
Tis said — but folks tell many lies. 

This fact remains, this truth is known: 

When Lydia walks 

Above her bend the dappled skies; 

About her flit bright butterflies; 

And song-birds blend, more tuneful grown, 
Their choral music with her own; 

All Nature takes a lovelier guise 

When Lydia walks. 



STELLA 



Across my night you fleet — a star! 

A rosebud scent upon the air! 
A lilt of music from afar! — 

And fade too soon for one so fair! 



TO A LADY 

Portrait Marked "Unknown" 

Altho' I'm late two hundred years or so; 

Altho' I may not learn your gentle name; 

Nor time, nor anonymity your fame 
Shall dim, dear Lady of the Long-Ago. 
Abides the love that makes this canvas show 

Your beauty, charm and poise, for aye the same; 

Tho' you and he who painted pass, its flame 
Kindles in later eyes a kindred glow, 
As hopeless! For the Fates decreed that you, 

Fair flower of a noble, ancient race, 
Should bloom in fragrant loveliness alone — 
Forever to yourself, to love, too true — 

Masking, in eternal cultured calm of face 
A heart to be adored — afar, unknown! 



TO L. 

There will be tears when you have passed away, 

And the smothered sobs of many a gasping prayer; 

Slow, solemn whisperings will haunt the air 
As shuffling feet drag out that mournful day. 
No rites will lack, that hand or heart can pay, 

To you who made the world seem flower-fair; 

No one who knew you will invite despair 
Nor from your guidance wholly go astray. 
Your deeds and thoughts, so nobly sweet and true, 

Your faith, that steadfast held its Polar Star, 
As blessed candles will return to you 

And rise as sacred incense near and far; 
And God. who made you good and lovely too, 

Will perfect what He only seems to mar. 

8 



IMMURED 

For him — who, jail'd within a castle keep, 

Beholds the silken cavalcade go by, 

In gorgeous pomp and gracious majesty, 
To clatter o'er the bridge and climb the steep 
Thro' flower'd pastures; who does not gladly peep, 

Tho' barr'd, at golden sun and dappl'd sky; 

But, bitter, turns away his darken'd eye, 
Most truly mur'd in melancholy deep — 
Contempt! You, rather, when, in proud array, 

The Knights of Poesy sweep grandly on, 
Should look and call — tho' not as free as they 

To curb in jewel-deckt caparison, 
A restive Pegasus: "Ride ye, to-day? 

Tomorrow, bring a draft from Helicon!" 



TO HARLEQUIN 

You follow, Harlequin, where Columbine 

With silver slipper makes the heartsease bleed; 

You wince, but will not thorny warnings heed 
When you her hair with roses intertwine. 
Her melting lips, to you than mellow wine 

More tempting, yet will give the kiss you plead; 

She. timidly denying, grants, indeed, 
And, lusciously reluctant, seems divine. 
Ah! doomed to lose by winning! you, too soon, 

Will learn you act a farce arranged by Fate; 
That, chains will link you to the fancied boon 

She must impose, although she hesitate; 
That both will watch the golden honeymoon 

Wane in the Boreal, flickering marriage-state. 



MARSYAS REDIVIVUS 

The tuneless Marsyas, untaught by woe, 

Free-verses loudly in the imagist; 

He daubs, in tottering cubes, the world a-twist; 
Reeling with autotoxic vertigo. 
The slough he punts — he cannot sail or row — 

Refracts crude colors to the futurist 

Who thinks its mud, its mottled scum, its mist, 
Far lovelier than the archipelago, 
The gemmed JEgeanl But, if Apollo came 

Would He compete once more, or wake the lyre? 
Or say in winged words of pointed flame: 

"O, Marsyas, once dead! My growing ire 
Disdains to flay again; but do not claim 

Your ambiguity is Delphic fire!" 



PHYLLIS 



Phyllis, quite like the emerald rare, 
Proclaims her worth by flaws; 

And rich and green and free from care, 

Phyllis, quite like the emerald rare, 

Attracting notice everywhere, 
Appraisal seeks — and draws. 

Phyllis, quite like the emerald rare, 
Proclaims her worth by flaws. 



10 



FRAGMENT OF WAR POEM 

"It is into the woods we go, my sons! 

It is into the Bois we go! 
Tis there we'll check and turn the Huns, 

In the wildwood of Belleau! 
And yonder's a town that we must take!" 

Said brave old Sergeant Daish. 
"Go get it, and hold for the old Corps' sake— 

'Tis the town of fair Boureches!" 

Then into that hell they went pell-mell, 

The men of the Corps Marine; 
Tho' shot and shell from the enemy fell, 

And tore their ranks between — 
On, on they press'd! And firm they stood— 

'Stout hearts and eyes so keen. 
They took Bouresches! France nam'd the wood, 

"Le Bois de la Brigade Marine!" 

They were heroes who turned the tide that day, 

They were men at their manly best; 
For the Devil-Dogs fought in the Leatherneck way- 

And the Germans can tell you the rest! t 
They fought— and some stay with Sergeant Daish, 

He of the quip and the yarn, 
In the quiet graveyard near Bouresches, 

In the Valley of the Marne! 



11 



THE UNHARMED STATUE OF PAN 
IN A GARDEN AT CHATEAU THIERRY 

That pagan Pan's sardonic grin 

Exhibits well the mood he's in; 

As from his sculptured pipelets flow 
In unheard measures, fast or slow, 

The subtle cadences of sin. 

He scatheless pipes above the din; 
He cares not who may lose or win; 
He is, while blood is shedding so, 

That pagan, Pan! 

Around him shards and bullets spin; 
He laughs to see men slay their kin; 

And faster, wilder, does he blow 

To see a Goethe fall and show 
"Gemacht in Deutschland" stamped within. — 
That pagan Pan! 



MISSA SOLIS 



Before the altar opalescent, 

The waning moon and Venus crescent, 

Conjunctive, like a censer sway; 
Through orient incense evanescent, 
Above earth's chalice iridescent, 

The golden wafer strikes its ray; 

The Sun is lifted, it is day! 



12 



MY MARGARET 

My Margaret! my Muse! my Grace! 

Minerva holds her wonted place 

Within thy form, my lovely girl, 
My lustrous, perfect, only pearl, 

And smiles on me thro' thy dear face! 

When thou art by there's nothing base 
That dare oppose my measured pace, 
Or set my ordered thoughts awhirl, 
My Margaret! 

Thou art a slender, jeweled vase 

All dainty perfumes to encase — 

Yet 'round thee twine, in many a curl, 
The vines whose grapes may set atwirl 

The dancing of a nobler race, 

My Margaret! 



HOLY WEEK 



The sun is warm, the breezes blow, 
The flowers form, the grasses grow, 
The robins sing and everything 
Is bright in these first days of spring! 

It's spring outside, it's spring withim 
It's joy's high tide when love may win; 
It's Holy Week when ladies seek 
Gaily to seem demure and meek. 

They chatter, clatter, round and round, 
In shops and churches they are found; 
They look for bargains in each place; 
A heavenly hat — a cheaper Grace. 

13 



SONG 

Let me but kiss that gentle hand, 

I ask no further favor; 
My heart of yours makes small demand, 

Yet lives upon love's savor. 
The rose, by southern breezes fanned, 

Can yield no sweeter flavor 
Than you, my dear, who understand 

And give the love I pray for! 

Vows are but words and fade away, 

They readily are broken; 
Your heart will truly love repay 

Although it be unspoken. 
Caresses are but youthful play — 

They may not love betoken — 
But love, true love, will always stay 

Where once it is awoken! 



THE DAYS OF LONG AGO 

The days of columbine and mignonette, 
The rosy, purple skies of long ago, 

In vivid memory, we live them yet, 

The days of columbine and mignonette. 

As we grow old, how quickly we forget 

The dull, drab, recent years! But still we know 

The days of Columbine and Mignonette, 
The rosy, purple skies of long ago. 



14 



DISPENSED 

I need not go to church to-day; 

I heard the cardinal sing matins 
In such a clear, impressive way 
I need not go to church to-day. 
Few priests their services can say 

As well as he— not Greeks or Latins— 
I need not go to church to-day, 

I heard the cardinal sing matins! 

At break of day, he sang his song, 
That cardinal of happy heart; 

He lilted daintily and long, 

At break of day he sang his song. 

He drove away all thought of wrong, 
He made me choose the better part, 

At break of day he sang his song 
That cardinal of happy heart. 



15 



MY CAMEO 

Because I saw your noble, saintly face 

Lift Heavenward, I had your portrait made 
In onyx-stone; for that would never fade. 

Because your dignity and gentle grace 

Are shown so well therein, I'm prone to place 
My picture-jewel where it is displayed 
Too freely. Pride? Ah! Yes! Perhaps a shade 

Of ostentation may my love debase. 

These busy vices, though, do not explain 
Why fairer images of you appear 

Engraven on my heart; nor why, in vain, 

My eager arms reach out to clasp you, Dear, 

When, in my dreams, I am a child again 
And see my ever-lovely mother near! 



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